An urgent warning for state’s coast

Published: Friday, December 18, 2009 at 12:06 p.m.

Last Modified: Friday, December 18, 2009 at 12:06 p.m.

From the top of the tiny levee that rings Isle de Jean Charles in southeastern Terrebonne, there’s a sensation of standing at the edge of the Earth. Maps call the expanse of water that stretches to the south and east by various names, including Lake Tambour, Lake Barre, Lake Felicity and Lake Chien. The names date to a time when it was infinitely easier to discern one water body from another, when thick marsh hemmed in the waterways and cows grazed in pastures along Bayou Pointe-aux-Chenes that are now open water. But for all intents and purposes, there’s just one body of water that surrounds the island and surges over the levee whenever a storm comes within a few hundred miles, the Gulf of Mexico.

Every so often, a national news outlet spotlights Isle de Jean Charles’ struggle for survival.

Earlier this month, an ABC News segment cast the island as one of the first casualties in the battle against global climate change, calling the Isle de Jean Charles band of the Biloxi-Chitimacha Confederation of Muskogees and Houma Indians who are planning to relocate “America’s first climate refugees.”

But the reasons the island is facing abandonment are more complex.

Decade after decade of hurricanes, each more destructive that the last because of eroding wetlands, vanishing barrier islands and sinking land, have whittled the island’s population to a handful of families and itinerant sport fishermen who own camps. And leaders of the American Indian community are looking for a way to relocate, even as other islanders insist they’ll never leave.

Isle de Jean Charles does makes an apt allegory, but not for media opportunists looking to shoehorn the island’s plight into a news report clearly timed to coincide with the United Nations Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen, Denmark.

While scientists say rising sea levels pose a clear hazard to the state, Louisiana’s coastal woes have their own unique causes. Exploration and production in coastal wetlands years ago by the oil-and-gas industry left a maze of canals, making it easier for saltwater to penetrate the freshwater marshes. Levees built by the Mississippi River nearly a century ago to prevent flooding cut off the supply of freshwater and sediment that sustained the fragile coastal ecosystem. Accordingly, the land is sinking, at a rate much faster than the sea is rising, according to the U.S. Geological Survey. For all of us in south Louisiana, the island is the “canary in the coal mine,” as Sharon Gauthe, director of Thibodaux-based Bayou Interfaith Shared Community Organizing, told a Courier reporter earlier this month.

Isle de Jean Charles is a casualty, fallen victim to the same coastal issues that threaten other communities across south Louisiana.

“The island itself is basically doomed,” said Albert Naquin, who grew up on the island and claims the title of chief of the Isle de Jean Charles band of Biloxi-Chitimachas.

However, after decades of neglect, Louisiana’s coastal issues have finally gotten the full attention of state leaders.

And after years of foundering in red tape and bureaucracy, Terrebonne officials forged ahead on their own with a version of the Morganza-to-the-Gulf hurricane-protection system, though the levees are about half as high as those originally contemplated.

It’s lamentable that the momentum marshaled at last to fight coastal erosion and wetlands loss is not likely to save Isle de Jean Charles. Such collections of history, tradition and culture are irreplaceable, and if there’s anything instructive in witnessing the death of a place, let it serve as a reminder of the precarious position of all of south Louisiana’s coastal communities.

<p>From the top of the tiny levee that rings Isle de Jean Charles in southeastern Terrebonne, there's a sensation of standing at the edge of the Earth. Maps call the expanse of water that stretches to the south and east by various names, including Lake Tambour, Lake Barre, Lake Felicity and Lake Chien. The names date to a time when it was infinitely easier to discern one water body from another, when thick marsh hemmed in the waterways and cows grazed in pastures along Bayou Pointe-aux-Chenes that are now open water. But for all intents and purposes, there's just one body of water that surrounds the island and surges over the levee whenever a storm comes within a few hundred miles, the Gulf of Mexico.</p><p>Every so often, a national news outlet spotlights Isle de Jean Charles' struggle for survival.</p><p>Earlier this month, an ABC News segment cast the island as one of the first casualties in the battle against global climate change, calling the Isle de Jean Charles band of the Biloxi-Chitimacha Confederation of Muskogees and Houma Indians who are planning to relocate “America's first climate refugees.”</p><p>But the reasons the island is facing abandonment are more complex.</p><p>Decade after decade of hurricanes, each more destructive that the last because of eroding wetlands, vanishing barrier islands and sinking land, have whittled the island's population to a handful of families and itinerant sport fishermen who own camps. And leaders of the American Indian community are looking for a way to relocate, even as other islanders insist they'll never leave.</p><p>Isle de Jean Charles does makes an apt allegory, but not for media opportunists looking to shoehorn the island's plight into a news report clearly timed to coincide with the United Nations Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen, Denmark.</p><p>While scientists say rising sea levels pose a clear hazard to the state, Louisiana's coastal woes have their own unique causes. Exploration and production in coastal wetlands years ago by the oil-and-gas industry left a maze of canals, making it easier for saltwater to penetrate the freshwater marshes. Levees built by the Mississippi River nearly a century ago to prevent flooding cut off the supply of freshwater and sediment that sustained the fragile coastal ecosystem. Accordingly, the land is sinking, at a rate much faster than the sea is rising, according to the U.S. Geological Survey. For all of us in south Louisiana, the island is the “canary in the coal mine,” as Sharon Gauthe, director of Thibodaux-based Bayou Interfaith Shared Community Organizing, told a Courier reporter earlier this month.</p><p>Isle de Jean Charles is a casualty, fallen victim to the same coastal issues that threaten other communities across south Louisiana.</p><p>“The island itself is basically doomed,” said Albert Naquin, who grew up on the island and claims the title of chief of the Isle de Jean Charles band of Biloxi-Chitimachas.</p><p>However, after decades of neglect, Louisiana's coastal issues have finally gotten the full attention of state leaders.</p><p>And after years of foundering in red tape and bureaucracy, Terrebonne officials forged ahead on their own with a version of the Morganza-to-the-Gulf hurricane-protection system, though the levees are about half as high as those originally contemplated.</p><p>It's lamentable that the momentum marshaled at last to fight coastal erosion and wetlands loss is not likely to save Isle de Jean Charles. Such collections of history, tradition and culture are irreplaceable, and if there's anything instructive in witnessing the death of a place, let it serve as a reminder of the precarious position of all of south Louisiana's coastal communities. </p><p>Editorials represent the opinions of the </p><p>newspaper, not of any individual.</p>